


beware of darkness

by stoprobbers



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Comfort, F/M, Family Feels, Fluff, Jancy Fic Week, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-09 06:14:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27309742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stoprobbers/pseuds/stoprobbers
Summary: watch out now, take care, beware of the thoughts that linger, winding up inside your head, the hopelessness around you, in the dead of nightBeware of sadness; It can hit you, it can hurt you, make you sore and what is more, that is not what you are here forpost-starcourt, pre-finale.
Relationships: Jonathan Byers/Nancy Wheeler
Comments: 2
Kudos: 33





	beware of darkness

It is stifling in the house.

There is no exhale of relief this time, no confidence that it is _over_. Wounds may heal but this time Jonathan feels certain this will happen again, and again, and again, until it wins and they are all dead.

And so the air does not lift. It stays weighted.

His mother’s shoulders stay slumped, exhausted and wrung out, as she goes through the motions of everyday life. This time their house was not the target so she can make coffee, do laundry, mop floors. Carefully manage her youngest son’s resentment, her new daughter’s fragility.

Her oldest son is but an afterthought, a squeeze on the bicep or a hand on the back of the neck in passing, assurance he is still there, still solid, not a figment of her imagination.

He’s no longer quite so sullen that he thinks it’s intentional; that she’s checking he’s still there for fix breakfast and run errands while she tends to the more important child. But it doesn’t _not_ feel that way either; if she’s ever wondered about the bruises spread like camouflage across his back and shoulders, or how he got that cut on his forehead, she hasn’t asked.

But she is caught in the fog of Eleven’s grief, the thickest and most pervasive air in the house.

It’s humid as the tropics and just as suffocating, a weight on everyone’s chest. El weeps nearly constantly; sometimes wracked sobs from behind his mother’s bedroom door, sometimes a slow drip she seems almost unaware of.

She drips as she stares past the television, or a magazine, her dinner plate, or an Eggo waffle. She drips while Mike speaks softly from a perch by her elbow. She drips while his mom tries to distract her with offers to go somewhere, do something, anything other than return to the splintered cabin she can no longer call home. His mom, he catches her dripping too.

Jonathan stands at the edges of it, and while another home with different air at the ready when he needs a full inhale he’s caught at the threshold. Will is trapped in the middle, tended to but only absently, for once not the center of attention after a supernatural disaster. He supposes he thought Will would find it a relief, but he doesn’t seem to.

He’s almost impossible to read. Sometimes he seems brooding. Sometimes he seems guilty. Sometimes, often when Mike is over, he seems angry – a kind of anger Jonathan doesn’t recognize in his brother; deep and burning and resentful, with long roots and winding branches. It reminds him of their father.

Will doesn’t say much to El; not hostile, but more often than not cold. Jonathan watches from across the living room or the kitchen table, wondering. They have so much more in common than they seem to realize. They know another world intimately – are perhaps the only two people on earth who can say a being from another dimension is hunting them – but they remain locked in a standoff.

Will seems to resent the attention El gets, even though he’s been shaking it off himself for a year now. She doesn’t seem to notice. She stays blank, hollowed out and lost as she is spoken to, checked on, bathed and dressed and fed with the care of handling something desperately fragile.

Jonathan suspects that only makes it worse, reminds her of the scrutiny of scientists and researchers, the experiments and punishments, only now it’s all for her unfamiliar vulnerability and not the power that no longer crackles under her skin.

He considers his suspicions confirmed when she casts him desperate glances, silent pleas for help extricating herself from this time, this place, this life she’s found herself in. In his own way, he knows the feeling.

She trusts him, he thinks. He knows. She lay panting with pain on the floor of a mall and let him cut into her leg with a kitchen knife he sterilized in a stove’s flame. She trusted him then, and she trusts him now. But he’s not sure what to do with that.

The air in the house thickens by the minute, until it’s choking. On the sixth day, he gives her his room. Perhaps a little privacy will let them breathe again.

He’s lost in his own haze as he piles blankets and pillows on the sofa, stares at the shadows on the ceiling from the front yard. His mind drifts through the corridors of the last couple weeks, not just the battle at the mall but his own horrors big and small - Tom, Bruce, fighting with Nancy, fighting with Will, the smell of blood and antiseptic, the sound of screams echoing off empty hallways and lightweight metal stands bending against solid wood doors, the crack of shattering wood walls and falling roof tiles, headlights in his peripheral vision growing bigger, brighter, doubling a shadow that ducks down in a desperate attempt to escape the inescapable.

The weight of the air is replaced by the weight of something else, and he fists his hands in the blankets, holding them closer for protection.

He’s nowhere near sleep but he is nearly lost in memory when there’s a crash, a yelp, the hiss of shushed voices from the direction of his room and he’s skidding down the hall in his boxers and socks before he can even think.

He slides to a stop in his bedroom doorway and catches sight of El, bolt upright under his covers, and Nancy, trying desperately to right the pile of records she’s knocked over in surprise before it can make any more noise, just seconds before his mother’s bedroom door creaks open.

“El?” she’s saying as she crosses the threshold. “Is everything—Jonathan?”

He turns to look at her for just a moment, just long enough to hear a thump and a crash and wince; there go the records.

“Is everything alright?” his mother asks, trying to look over his shoulder into the room.

For a moment he’s at a loss for words but El surprises him by speaking up.

“Yes,” she says softly, voice wavering slightly. “I’m sorry. I wanted to listen to music but I didn’t know how. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” he answers automatically, still blocking his mother’s view. When he turns back to her, Nancy is gone.

The time on the stereo blinks 11:42 and for a moment he thinks maybe, just maybe, he dreamed his girlfriend in the dark room but then the records shift again, another one sliding from the top of the crooked pile, and he hears the quietest hiss along with the thump as it hits the ground.

“Sweetheart do you need—”

“I got it, Mom,” he interrupts her. “It’s okay, El. I’ll show you how to use the record player. Next time you want to listen to something, just turn on the light first, alright?”

“Are you sure?” the little girl replies in a near-whisper and his smile is genuine.

“Jonathan—” his mom starts but he waves a hand at her.

“It’s fine, I promise. Go back to bed, I got this.”

Joyce looks at him and the darkened doorway, eyes flitting back and forth like she knows there’s a piece of the puzzle missing. But the circles under her eyes are dark and deep, too, and Jonathan knows she’s tired to the marrow of her bones, so he just waits.  
It only takes a moment for her to sigh and take a step back. “Alright. You get some sleep too, okay Jonathan? You need sleep too.”

“I will, Mom.”

His mother gives him one more long look then finally nods. “Alright then. Good night Jonathan. Good night, El. You come get me if you need anything else, okay?”  
  
“Yes, Mrs. Byers,” El whispers in return. Something in his mom’s eyes flashes like sadness before she gives him a pat on the shoulder and returns to her bedroom. As soon as the door closes behind her, he slips inside his room and does the same.

“My head,” Nancy moans softly, and he snaps on the bedside light just in time to see her rise onto her knees from where she was lying flat on her stomach between bed and window. “That last one got me right on the head.”

He bites his lip so he doesn’t laugh aloud and bring his mother back to his room, properly blowing their cover. Nancy sticks her tongue out at him.

“I’m sorry,” El says again. The waver in her voice stronger, and he realizes the younger girl is genuinely upset. “I didn’t mean to be so loud; I just didn’t know what was happening and someone was coming through the window—”

“Oh, no, no, no, no, no,” he rushes to cut her off, lunging toward the bed to comfort her. “No, El, really, it’s okay. I didn’t think about it, I should have told you Nancy might come over. It’s my fault. I forgot.”

“Clearly,” Nancy mutters, standing properly and brushing the dust off her jeans before starting to gather the falling records. “I didn’t know you’d be in here, El. Sure would have been nice if someone had told me that.”

The words sting but to his surprise they bring a tiny smile to El’s lips. He pulls a face at both of them in return.

“It was a last-minute change. Slipped my mind.” He squeezes El’s wrist lightly, which he hopes comes across reassuring. “Would you like to listen to something to help you sleep?”

El’s eyes are still shining brightly but she nods. He slides off the bed and crosses to his stereo, and as he does Nancy’s hand rests lightly on the small of his back. Its warmth spreads across his skin through his thin t-shirt.

“What do you like?”

“Um,” Eleven sounds deeply unsure. “I usually listen to the radio.”

“That’s okay,” he assures her, or tries to.

“Hop likes— _liked_ ,” she swallows so hard against the word he feels sympathy pains in the pit of his stomach, “Jim, uh, Jim Cro... Crock-ee?”

Jonathan’s brow furrows. “I don’t know who that is.”

To his surprise, El starts singing; soft and out of key, but singing nonetheless. “You don’t tug on superman’s cape, you don’t spit into the wind…”

“You don’t pull the mask of that old lone ranger and you don’t mess around with Jim,” Nancy finishes quietly behind him. For a second he’s once again unsure he isn’t dreaming, but then her hand presses slightly too hard on a bruise that’s still healing and the dull throb confirms he’s not. “She means Jim Croce. My mom plays that record.”

“Ah. Well, I don’t have any Jim Croce but,” he considers the girl on the bed and the collection in front of him, thinking about what might be close enough to Hopper’s taste to soothe her without dragging her down that well of mourning once more. His eyes land on a double cassette, and it feels right. “I think you might like this.”

“If I put on the record you’d have to flip too much,” he explains as he snags it, holds it up. “Here, I’ll show you.”

He demonstrates methodically; how to take out the cassette, put it in the player, which button to push to make sure it flips automatically. He shows her play and pause, fast forward and rewind, and how to tell when you’re at the beginning of the tape. Once there, he sets the volume nice and low and steps away.

“Me?” she asks. He nods.

“Push play.”

She looks nervous but slowly reaches out an index finger, pressing down on the dull silver button. There’s a click, a whirr, a pause of a few seconds and then a bending guitar. Jonathan smiles at her.

“There you go. Think you can sleep now?”

She nods swiftly, almost frantically, and withdraws back into his bed sheets. Nancy’s hand has drifted from the small of his back to his wrist. He laces their fingers together and she squeezes harder than he’s expecting.

He leads her to and out the door, expecting nothing but a dark hallway and nearly jumps out of his skin when Will is standing there, mid-step, as if he’s not sure whether to push forward or retreat.

The look on his face is hard to read, somewhere between concern, apprehension and something else he can’t place. Not resentment, not quite. In the shadows of the corridor Jonathan could swear it looks like determination. Whatever it is, it solidifies into exasperated disgust as Nancy emerges from behind him.

Will huffs a dismissive note from the back of his throat and turns on his heel, shutting his own bedroom door before Jonathan can say anything.

“What was that?” Nancy whispers behind him.

It’d take hours, he thinks, so just sighs and leads her to the living room.

“I’ve got the couch,” he says, dropping her hand and sitting down in the mess of blankets he left behind. He rests his elbows on his knees, forehead on the heels of his hands. He’s tired but his blood is thrumming. “You don’t have to stay.”

Two soft thumps signal the removal of her shoes.

“If I’d known I’d have worn comfier pants, or stolen a pair of your pajamas,” she laments, nudging him with her knee, “but I think we can fit. Scoot.”

They don’t fit, not really, but she is slim and presses herself all the way against him, wedging him between the back of the couch and her warmth. Even as the bruises on his back protest, he nuzzles his nose into her hair and inhales the flower scent of her shampoo. He’ll take it.

“So,” she says into the corner of his jaw. “Things seem…”

“Yeah. El’s sad. Mom’s sad. Will is… lost, I think. He’s not quite sure what to do when the person most in need of help isn’t him.”

“You’d think he’d be relieved.”

“You would.” He considers a moment. “I think he doesn’t know what to do with El.”

“He doesn’t like her?”

“He doesn’t _know_ her. And she barely knows him. It’s nuts. They’re the only two people who could possibly understand each other and they either can’t or won’t see it.”

He falls silent, not quite wanting to say what’s on the tip of his tongue and hoping she won’t notice. Knowing she will.

“And?”

He sighs deeply, rustling her curls. “I think Mike is making it worse.”

He’s not surprised when she pulls away from him, closes his eyes briefly to brace himself for the upcoming argument, but when he opens them, she’s propped up on one elbow, contemplating him. For once he feels compelled to fill the silence.

“He’s Will’s best friend, and all he does when he’s here is stay with El. And I get it, I do, she basically lost her dad, but… it’s like Will doesn’t even exist. It hurts him, a lot. They got into that fight before— before the cabin, and I don’t even think Mike’s ever apologized to him.”

“Mike’s a little shit,” Nancy agrees, “but I’d bet my entire piggy bank he’s not doing it intentionally.”

He can’t help it; he grins at that.

“What?”

“Just thinking about Nancy Wheeler’s piggy bank. Pink and pretty, right next to her reporter pad and her gun.”

“Shut up,” there’s no bite behind her words and she leans down to brush a kiss over his lips as she says it, “Just because I have some dignity and don’t keep my savings stashed under my mattress…”

“Not sure a pink pig is dignified, and my savings are _not_ stashed under my mattress,” he sniffs primly.

She smiles at that, fond, amused, and kisses him again.

The temptation to stop talking, to fall into her warmth and softness and take the comfort from her he needs is strong, but when he moves to do so a spring beneath the worn cushions digs into his side, right into the center of one of the worst bruises and he can’t help it; he winces and pulls away. Nancy sighs.

“Stupid couch,” he grumbles as she settles back into his arms, cheek on his shoulder and nose lightly tracing his cheek.

“How bad does it still hurt?”

He shrugs the shoulder that’s not occupied. “It hurts. But not as much. Just bruises.”

One hand slides across his torso and onto his ribs, tracing his side from armpit to hip.

“Still in one piece,” he assures her softly, returns to the topic at hand. “And I know Mike probably isn’t doing it intentionally. But he’s here nearly every day and it’s not helping.”

“Do you want me to talk to him?”

“I don’t know,” honest but unhelpful, “They’re not little kids anymore. I don’t know if any of this is my business. Will used to tell me everything but… not anymore.”

“I can talk to him,” her tone is insistent. “I will.”

They lapse into silence, and with her warmth and weight under the blankets with him, the tug of sleep comes closer behind his eyes. If he closes them and listens closely, he can hear the barest undercurrent of music beneath their breathing.

“I wouldn’t have guessed George,” she murmurs, lips first brushing against stubble, then pressing with intention.

“Hm?”

“For your favorite Beatle. I’d have guessed John.”

“It’s not about favorite Beatle. It’s a good album, and one I think would help her right now,” he pauses, considering, “It’s about grief too, in its own way.”

“But your favorite Beatle _is_ John, right?” She deftly maneuvers around his chin as she raises her face to look at him. “Right?”

“That’s _not_ the point,” he repeats, rolling his eyes and shifting into a slightly more comfortable position more half-under her than beside her. “Go to sleep.”

She’s quiet for a moment, and the sound of her breathing with the barest hint of music from down the hall lift the pall that’s been hanging in the air all week. Then he feels her lips move, curling into a smile just above his shirt collar.

“…Knew it.”

+++

A bop on the head wakes him, paired with a snort of amusement. He’s still on the couch and so is Nancy but in the night they’ve moved, leaving him spooning against her back, arm tight around her waist as she hangs partially off the edge of the sofa, feet nearly on the ground. His neck and shoulders ache from the tight squeeze and his arm is shaking from the effort, he realizes. Beside him, Nancy groans softly as she wakes too.

“Rise and shine.” His mother’s voice is wry as he blinks his eyes open, the room blurry around him. “I’ll get a cot for El this afternoon so you don’t have to do this again.”

“No, I can use the cot,” he protests immediately, automatically, brain lagging a little behind his mouth. “I don’t mind, the living room’s not that bad—”

“Not for the living room,” his vision clears a little and he can see she’s got that look on her face, the one for when one of her sons surprises her. “Will said she can move into his room for a while, at least until we figure out something more permanent.”

“Really?” He pushes himself up on one arm, so shocked he almost feels guilty. He sees Will’s face in the hallway again. Perhaps it was determination after all. 

“I think he understands what she’s going through more than we give him credit for,” his mom points out and then turns her attention to the girl rising beside him, awkwardly balanced on the edge of the cushion. “Good morning, Nancy.”

“Morning Mrs. Byers.” There’s a sheepish note in her voice and Jonathan bites back a wince, but his mother doesn’t seem too terribly bothered. With all that’s happened, maybe it’s time to stop being contrite about it, he wonders.

“I, uh, let me get dressed and I’ll help out with breakfast,” he offers, before the silence can get awkward.

“ _We’ll_ help,” Nancy adds and something in his chest lifts a little.

Nancy follows his mom to the kitchen, rumpled and barefoot, and he watches her for a moment before rising himself. His knees creak and protest, moving from his odd and cramped position for the first time in hours.

He yawns and stretches as he pads to his room but draws up short in the doorway. El and Will are sitting side by side on the bed facing his stereo, heads bent in what is obviously intense conversation.

“So you liked this, then.” Will taps the case to _All Things Must Pass_ , set on his bed between them.

“Yes.”

“Well, what other kind of songs do you like?” Will presses. “Sad songs, happy songs, angry songs?”  
  
“Mike likes love songs,” El offers. Will scoffs.

“I didn’t ask what kind of songs Mike likes, I asked what kind of songs _you_ like.” He leans in further, face deadly serious. “You don’t have to like anything just because someone tells you you should, you know.”

The corner of Jonathan’s mouth lifts, involuntary pride.

“But what if I like those songs too?”  
  
“That’s fine. But you have to find out what _you_ like.” Will holds up a tape; Jonathan recognizes it immediately, that first mixtape he ever gave Will all those years ago, when times were bad. As bad as they are right now for El, perhaps.

_All the best stuff’s on there. Joy Division, Bowie, Television, The Smiths. It’ll change your life_.

An emotion he can’t name rises in the center of his chest.

“I want to hear it,” El is saying when he snaps out of the memory.

“But you promise you’ll tell me if you don’t like any of it?”

“Yeah,” El nods fervently. “Promise.”

“Okay then,” Will nods too, and reaches for the cassette player.

Jonathan takes a step back as the first chords of “Do I Stay or Do I Go” ring out from the speakers. Getting dressed doesn’t seem so important anymore. He lingers with one foot in the doorway, watching Will watch El listen to his little brother’s favorite song.

He takes a deep inhale, and realizes the air is a little lighter. Then he leaves to help with breakfast.

**Author's Note:**

> jancy week 2020, day 1: family
> 
> summary lyrics/title come from "beware of darkness" by george harrison


End file.
